Dangerous Games
by brynerose
Summary: **Alternate ending to 'Thicker Than Water' by Adolescently, with permission**  What if Sam's brush with Yellow Eyes wasn't so easy to fix?  Rated for graphic imagery.
1. Chapter 1

Dangerous Games

**A/N: This is an alternate ending sequence to the story "Thicker Than Water" by Adolescently. The original story concept is to her credit; I'm just building on it. If you haven't read her story first, stop reading this and pull up hers! Thanks!**

**For those of you who have already read "Thicker Than Water," I'm picking up where John and Bobby have performed the summoning spell, and caught Meg instead…characters' opinions aren't quite spot on matched, but bear with me.  
><strong> 

"Dean…please…"

Tears forced themselves from Dean's eyes. It was hard enough to hold Sam down as he struggled, begged, writhed in pain. But to know that Sam's misery stemmed from a need for _demon blood_, of all things…Dean almost couldn't handle it.

"It's going to be okay, Sammy. It's going to be okay…"

"For the record, this is the stupidest thing you've ever done, Winchester," said Bobby, lighting the final candle.

"You don't have to be here," growled John. "I'm the one that needs to do this."

"Your boys still need you; I'll be damned if I don't make sure they have that much. Just get it over with."

John chanted the word's from Bobby's antique text. As Bobby watched the setup they had created, the candles flickered ominously. The ritual herbs and other ingredients blew around in their bowl. Suddenly, a figure appeared in the Devil's Trap upon which everything sat. Except this was a dark-haired girl.

"What the…?" John's indignation died in his throat. The girl smirked.

"Father sends his regards. How is little Sammy?" she greeted the dumbstruck men.

Sam went rigid in Dean's arms.

"Sammy? Sammy, talk to me."

"I can feel it," the boy groaned weakly. An unnerving mixture of fear and hungry sparked in his hazel eyes. "It's so close. Please, Dean…" Sam struggled to rise, but Dean still easily outmatched him.

"Sorry little bro, I can't let you do that." _Dad, Bobby, I don't know what you're up to, but make it quick._

"Fixing Sam isn't as simple as you might think," purred the she-demon. "He's valuable to us, yes. And no, he won't be able to survive your stubborn cold-turkey regimen. However, unlike you, my Father can resurrect Sam for his purposes if he needs to. You're unlikely to see him again, if we have to do that."

"So he'd just let Sammy _die_?" John spat.

"Preferably not. He's willing to make you an offer. You get to hold on to Sam—if you give him demon blood."

"No!" Bobby and John shouted in unison.

The demon shrugged. "Have it your way. Sam's last days will be agony, I assure you. So can I go?"

"Wait." John fairly shook with anger. To let the demon pull this over on them! His hunter instincts screamed at him not to accept the abominable task. Anything but feeding Sam demon blood! Yet the part of him already willing to go this far, the father in him, couldn't bear the thought of letting Sam suffer. He had to save his son.

Bobby startled as John moved quickly, pinning the demon from behind at the edge of the Trap. "What're you doing?"

"What I have to. Do it, Bobby," hissed John. "Take her blood. I hate it as much as you, but I will not let Sam die like that. He's just a kid."

"You're going to poison your son to save him?"

"_Do it_! We don't have much choice. I won't let that Yellow-Eyed bastard take him."

Reluctantly, Bobby grabbed an extra bowl and pulled out his knife. With the demon watching him, eyes at once satisfied and fearful, he prepared to lay open one of her outstretched arms. "Know this, Hellspawn. We're gonna bleed you dry before we send you back. See how cocky you are then." For good measure, he dipped the blade in holy water first.

Dean couldn't make out the muffled voices over Sam's whimpers and groans. Something was going on, and he didn't like the uneasiness it gave him. Meanwhile, his little brother became increasingly listless, sweat-coated face against Dean's chest. This new development scared him more than Sam's pleas for demon blood.

Without warning, a scream erupted outside. A girl's scream. Then the back door slammed, and his dad and Bobby strode into the room.

"You wanna tell me now what the hell we're doing?" snapped Bobby. He carried a bowl; something thick sloshed inside. Dean felt queasy.

His dad snatched a tipless syringe from the first aid kit on the table, dipping it into the bowl. As Dean feared, the plastic tube filled with red liquid.

"Dad…"

"It's the only way, son. Believe me, I hate having to do this. But we're dealing with an addiction here. Sammy can't handle the severity of going completely cold turkey, so we're going to have to help him down," John explained.

Dean stifled a retch in his throat as his dad put the syringe in Sam's mouth. The youngest Winchester had turned ashen, trembling slightly.

The effect was instantaneous. Sam's twitching muscles relaxed, his face taking on a calmer expression. He took his first truly steady breath in hours. John wiped his hands, and stood to face Bobby.

"The demon never specified we had to keep feeding him blood. We'll wean him off it like we would any drug. That way we can keep him alive, but he won't always be dependent on this poison. It's the best option Sam has," he croaked.

Bobby set his expression. "We should all get some rest, then. It's a long road ahead."


	2. Chapter 2

Two weeks later, Sam helped Dean maintenance their equipment. He was relegated to oiling the individual gun pieces (Dean disassembled and checked them), owing to his shaking hands.

"You holding up okay, tiger?" Dean asked.

"It's not nearly so bad," answered Sam, his voice wavery. "But it's still been three days. My head and stomach are starting to hurt."

That was the process. Each dose got smaller, the time between them longer. Sam did his best not to be reduced to a quivering mess in the meantime. He wanted to prove he was still a Winchester, or as much of one as he could be. That didn't mean it wasn't hard, though. He could never completely shake the pain, the desire, the tainted feeling inside.

"See if we can get this done, and then I'll ask Dad about giving you a little bit." Dean wasn't entirely successful at disguising his opinion of feeding Sam demon blood himself. Unfortunately, their Dad was in town for the moment getting groceries, and they couldn't very well let Sam do it on his own.

Sam swallowed hard. "O-okay. I just…I just need to use the bathroom real quick…" He got up and headed to the spare bathroom they shared on the second floor.

He couldn't decide if this was worse than drinking the demon blood. The idea of keeping a secret from Dean certainly didn't feel better. But he didn't seem to have much other choice. He reached in the medicine cabinet for a clean razor among a number of forgotten items.

If he had demon blood in his veins, then he could bleed it out, right? Sam was determined to be rid of the hated substance as quickly as possible. After all, it was the reason Dean and their dad were so stressed.

The first slice elicited a noise between shock and pleasure out of Sam. In the blade's wake, a glistening line of red joined other fading pinkish lines on his left forearm. He discovered this solution quite by accident—last week, as he hefted the garbage out for Bobby. Something had broken among the trash, and nicked Sam's arm when he shifted the weight to throw it in the dumpster. The temporary shock, the quick pain, the _blood_…that's when he realized he could do something about the whole awful mess.

Two days later, he found the old straight blades, sterilized them, and hid them.

He had to be careful, however. Too much at one time, or in one place, could tip someone off. At this thought, Sam switched to his right arm, which was as yet untouched (he felt clumsier handling the blade with his left). Nonetheless, relief mingled with a soft exhilaration. The tension and hunger leeched away with each cut he made. Sam made sure to randomize the direction somewhat, to hide the self-inflicted nature of his wounds. With a junk yard surrounded by woods, any number of explanations would work.

Only a few marks did the trick; he could return to helping Dean without being driven to distraction. But first, cleanup. Sam gently swiped his arms with damp toilet paper, made sure all the bleeding stopped. These wet scraps got flushed down the toilet. He dabbed antibiotic ointment to keep the cuts from getting infected. Lastly, he stopped by his room to put on a hand-me-down flannel shirt.

"You must've really had to go," Dean commented to Sam's returning footsteps. He didn't look up from the half-reassembled gun until Sam sat down. "You feelin' okay?"

Sam shrugged. "Just got a chill. With the windows open and the sun on the other side of the house and all."

"Well, there's plenty still to do."

Thankfully, Dean didn't notice that Sam's hands had stopped shaking for the time being.

The back door opened and closed noisily. Their dad appeared, arms laden with grocery bags. "'K, boys, we got supplies to pack up. We're leaving in the morning—new case."

Dean stood up to help. "That's a lot for us, isn't it?"

"Some of it's to pay Bobby back."

"Oh. And hey, it's probably time for another dose."

John froze for a moment. Then he leaned around the corner to appraise Sam. "Is that right?"

"Y-yes sir," Sam replied. "I mean, well, it's getting there…"

"Hmm. You don't look too bad. I say let's hold off until before we leave. That way you'll hopefully be decently useful when we get there. It's just down in Colorado."

"Yes sir."


	3. Chapter 3

They woke before dawn, and dressed in silence. Between sleepiness, his renewed ache for demon blood, and the revulsion that he still needed it, Sam didn't feel very well.

As he and Dean finished breakfast, their dad came in holding a tipless syringe and that loathsome jar of thick red liquid. Only a quarter of it was left. All three of them tensed up.

"We're only taking some of this with us; the rest stays with Bobby for research," John said flatly. "I expect you to be able to tough this out soon, Sammy."

Sam nodded, swallowing hard.

"Open up."

He obeyed, though every bit of him wanted to refuse. He almost gagged as the coppery taste hit his tongue. Dad was right. He needed to get the stuff completely out of his system ASAP. The relief his body felt when he swallowed made him shudder.

"That's that," rumbled John. "Go get your stuff."

_I sure will_, Sam thought, rinsing his breakfast dishes. "I'm gonna go brush my teeth again."

"Make it quick. We're leaving in fifteen minutes."

Sam had to resist bolting to the bathroom. The razor, dutifully cleaned and hidden, awaited him. He had to use his right arm again, with the left one still healing. After this time, he would need to leave the tortured skin alone for awhile. Only enough time for a few—he could afford to make them a little deeper to compensate. Sam relished the way the disgust he felt inside dripped away with his blood. No, _not_ his blood. Not really.

"Sam?" Dean's voice called from the living room.

Sam hurried to clean up, brushed his teeth (he honestly had intended to do so), slipped the razor and a couple spares into his shower bag, and rejoined his dad and brother.

"Go ahead and load the car," their dad instructed. Sam noted his fidgety demeanor, as if this comment was a hasty change of subject. "I've got a couple last minute things to discuss with Bobby." He disappeared to Bobby's study.

"Look at him, he can't stand to stay in the same room as me for very long. It's like he's given up on me," Sam grumped.

"You know that's the farthest thing from the truth. He's just worried about getting you back to normal, that's all. Don't say things like that," Dean quietly exclaimed. The boys grabbed their bags.

"You see how shifty his eyes get, how he can't quite look at me. I'm never going to be normal again, if I even was to begin with!"

"Sammy…" Whatever Dean's response was supposed to be, it apparently failed him. Instead he tried to juggle too big of a load at once.

"I can take Dad's. That way you can grab the weapons."

"You sure?" asked Dean. When Sam nodded, his older brother tossed the duffel at him. He fought a wince as the weight jammed his rough flannel sleeve against his fresh cuts. "You okay, Sammy?"

"Would you stop fussing over me? I'm fine, it just hit the crook of my elbow weird." Sam brushed off waspishly.

"Okay…get going before Dad catches you wasting time."

Sam lugged the bags out to the Impala. His arm stung badly, but he took satisfaction in the pain. It made him feel stronger that he could resist it, even if he had to give in to the craving for demon blood.

Dean followed him out, and popped the Impala's trunk.

"What about that truck Dad bought?" Sam queried. "What's he going to do with it?"

"Leave it here for now, I guess. He said we're all driving together on this trip," shrugged Dean. "Wants to keep a close eye on us. But I for one hope it means he'll start letting us tackle our own jobs, while he tackles others. Dunno, little bro—hey, what'd you do?"

Sam's head whipped up to meet Dean's gazed, which in turn pointed to Sam's right sleeve. Little red spots had appeared on it.

"N-nothing! They're from the other day, the bag must've—"

With expert reflexes, Dean caught Sam's wrist and tugged the sleeve up. Both of them froze. Dean's face paled. Then he checked Sam's other arm. After confirming the Bobby and their dad weren't around, he hissed, "_What the hell?_"

"It's nothing, none of your business!" squeaked Sam. He shoved the fabric back over his scored flesh.

"_That's_ not nothing! You're—you're—" Dean could only splutter, half-furious, half-scared. Packing forgotten, he sank to his knees in front of Sam, holding both of Sam's wrists.

"I'm making things better!" Sam insisted. "Face it, Dad can't stand me like this! The only reason he's taking me along is 'cause he doesn't trust me to be out of his sight. The sooner I no longer have demon blood, the sooner things go back to the way they were. Dad'll stop looking at me like I'm gonna turn into a monster."

Dean looked like he could cry. "God, Sammy…not like this, please not like this. Dad doesn't hate you. I mean, yeah, the demon-blood-psychic-thing was a lot for all of us to wrap our heads around. But slicing yourself open like this is dangerous. At least tell me you're taking care of them."

Sam nodded as emphatically as he could without getting dizzy.

"That's a relief. The last thing we need is you getting sick on this hunt."

This time Sam shook his head. "No way. And it's just until the demon blood is gone. That's all I want. No more after that."

"You bet your skinny ass no more. Period. Or for once I might be worse on you than Dad." Dean sighed, rising again to start loading the car.

"And Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Please don't tell him," pleaded Sam. "I know he wants the problem to go away. It's going away."

Dean pulled him into a one-armed hug. "You know, by rights I should be running to tell him. Hurting yourself isn't right in any situation. But I know tattling won't help things. Just promise me you're done. We'll get the demon blood out of your system, bud."

Sam remained silent.

"Get that stuff covered, and change your shirt, quick. I'll get the rest of the bags." Dean handed the first aid kit to Sam before heading inside for another load.

He finished just in time. As the last of the gear went into the trunk, Bobby and John emerged.

"Let's hit the road; we're burnin' daylight," announced John. He shook Bobby's hand, then strode around to the driver's door of the Impala. Bobby gave each of the boys a quick hug, wishing them good luck. They piled into the car as well, Dean in front, Sam in back.

"What happened to your other shirt, Sammy?" their dad asked over the guttural start of the engine.

"That was my fault," Dean cut in immediately. "I didn't check the gun oil as we packed. It spilled a little on his shirt sleeve, and he didn't want to keep wearing it."

"Well, be more careful." They headed out to the open road.


	4. Chapter 4

The drive was pretty typical—Def Leppard in the stereo, John bringing up details of the new case every so often, a bright sun that lulled Sam into a nap before too long. They stopped at a dilapidated rest area for lunch, and almost hit a bison at a state route junction. Thankfully the brute didn't seem to take offense. The older cuts on Sam's arm began to itch.

They made it to the town after only having to stop once more for gas. They located a motel before even needing dinner. John quickly put the boys to setting up shop

"It's still early. I'm going to do a little preliminary canvasing while Dean picks up a hot meal for us," he rapped out.

Sam straightened hopefully. "What do I do?"

"Stay here, start researching. The signs didn't start appearing until a number of bodies were already stacked up. We need to hit the ground running."

"But I wanna help you—"

"Don't talk back to me, Sammy. I'm not taking you out in the thick of it until we know your head's back where it should be. End of discussion." John ran a hand through greying hair, and swiped his keys up from the table. "Come on, Dean."

Dean threw Sam a sympathetic look, following their dad out the door. As soon as the Impala's engine came to life outside, Sam kicked the heavy night stand by his bed. This order wasn't unusual, except Sam was eager to prove he was trustworthy again.

_Until his head was where it should be?_

His dad saw him as a liability, even though he was brought along instead of being left at Bobby's. What was the point, then? To keep an eye on him? To make sure he didn't go off in search of demons to drain? Fat lot of good that intension was, if Sam was going to be left in the motel most of the time. It wasn't fair!

Still, Sam did as he was told, and more. He hooked the cranky old laptop to the motel's internet cable, looking for any local historical records of interest, articles about the recent deaths, the town's library hours. When Dad and Dean had yet to return, he decided to shower. The day's car ride, with leather seats to lounge on, left him feeling sticky. Besides, the sting of hot water on his healing arms gave him a new boost of purpose. He would kick the demon blood to the curb, showing Dad he was wrong.

The sound of the Impala didn't return until well after dark. By this time, Sam was stretched out on his bed in sweatpants, a t-shirt, and his flannel, channel surfing on the crappy TV. His dad and brother came tromping in, rain-soaked, with the smell of hot chicken.

"Having fun," growled John, though his voice was more tired than angry.

Sam pointed at the closed laptop and a page of notes on the table. "Already did my part. There's plenty to go on. I assume I'm not so unreliable that I can't go to the library tomorrow for more?" He couldn't help glowering slightly through his damp bangs.

"Watch your tone, boy. Yes, you can go to the library. I don't want to push things while you're still dealing with demon blood, is all. It's for your own good."

"When has _any_ of this been for our own good? You drag us around our whole lives, putting guns and knives in our hands, and teaching us that every nightmare we could dream up is out to kill us!" Sam didn't know exactly why he was snapping now, but he was. "How many other kids have to do that? Come on!"

"I'm doing the best I damn well can—"

"And look what happens! We go out chasing monsters, but I'm the one who's in trouble because I got kidnapped and fed magic blood by one? It wasn't my fault!"

"Now you listen here, Samuel—"

"No, you listen! I'm sick of this!"

Suddenly John flew against the closed motel door. He looked like a baseball bat had hit him between the eyes, he was so shocked.

Sam froze. Dean looked between him and their dad. They all knew what had happened. Sam's emotions had driven a response from his blood-fueled powers, whether intended or not. And it terrified him.

Before anyone else could react, he sprinted to the bathroom, locking the door. For good measure, he pushed the wooden linen shelves against the door. Maybe Dad was right. He was a dangerous liability. Tears blurred his vision.

_No! No no no!_

He had to get rid of it—all of it. The razor remained nestled in his shower bag, which was on the bathroom floor. Deaf to Dean's shouts and pounding on the door, he dug into his forearms indiscriminately with the blade…


	5. Chapter 5

"Sammy! C'mon, Sammy, open the door!" Dean called desperately. He had seen the look in his brother's eyes. The fear. And he had a sickening notion as to what Sam was doing behind that door.

"What on earth is going on with you two?" their dad demanded. Dean hammered at the door, ignoring him, until John spun him around bodily. "Answer me, son!"

"Do you know what you just did?" The words threatened to strangle Dean even as he said them. "For _once_, that kid wanted to help, to be something in this wreck of a family, and you just shoved it back in his face!"

"You know just as well as I do that until we get past this demon blood mess, we can't fully trust him."

"And you dragged him here anyway! Sammy is fighting it more than you could imagine. More than he should have to, alone. He's your son, for Christssake! Maybe you could keep that in mind?" Rant expelled, Dean went back to pummeling the door. "Sammy, open up!"

No answer. The knob was one of those push-and-twist locks, no conducive to being picked. With panic building in his chest, Dean threw his shoulder against the door. "Dad, help me!"

John finally shook the moment of numbness he had been stuck in, and joined Dean's effort. Between them the doorframe splintered in four tries, and the door budged inward.

"Shit…"

Sam was propped against the tub, eyes half-closed, breathing shallow. Blood from numerous gashes covered his forearms. It soaked into his sweatpants, dripping on the floor, where a straight razor had dropped from his hand.

"Don't do this to me, Sammy," muttered Dean, who grabbed towels to staunch the wounds. John was once again paralyzed by shock. His son was stubborn and uncooperative, but _suicidal_?

"How…why…"

"He tried to get rid of the demon blood, jackass! It's all he's cared about since we rescued him. You still wanna question his reliability, or are you going to help keep him alive?" spat Dean.

John swallowed with extreme difficulty. "You're right, son…I-I'm sorry." He took over keeping Sam's arms above heart level while Dean went for the first aid kit. For the first time since Mary's murder, he couldn't process what to do.

"We need to get those slowed, cleaned and stitched if necessary," Dean continued upon return. "To be safe, I'm going to draw some of my blood to give him, since we have the same blood type." He set antiseptic and suture supplies on a clean towel before setting up his own blood donation (lucky Bobby had told them hunters have had to perform transfusions in the field on occasion, so they were prepared). The stab of the needle in his elbow resonated with the ache in his gut as he watched his semiconscious brother. _Why? Why'd we let it get this bad?_

John used a spare shoelace to keep Sam's left arm elevated with the towel bar while he focused on the right one. He recognized other cuts in various stages of healing. This wasn't Sam's first effort. And it galled him. His baby boy lay bleeding out on a motel floor because of _his_ attitude.

"Sammy…"

His hands fought to keep steady as he put neat stitches –too many—in his youngest son's arms. By the time he had them swathed in gauze, his oldest held up a full bag of blood, the tube pinched off. They swapped out the needle for a clean one.

"Damn, I can't find a good vein," he cursed. Dean, elbow now bandaged, leaned over to help. They managed to hit one in Sam's hand, and get the transfusion going. Sam's face was scarily pale.

"We should get him to the bed. Pastor Jim told me once that it's too easy to get chilled after significant blood loss," breathed Dean. He began to strip off Sam's bloody sweats.

"Take it easy, you just drained yourself a pint of blood. Don't go moving too fast."

Dean glared at him. "I have to. You grab his shoulders."

John gripped the IV bag in his teeth, and hauled Sam's upper body while Dean lifted his brother's knees. Very slowly and awkwardly, they maneuvered the gangly teenager to the bed farthest from the door. John used a bare nail in the wall to hang the bag.

"Now you, sit," he commanded Dean. "I'll get you some water and one of the chicken sandwiches before you pass out too." He grabbed some for himself as well. With the excitement over, all that remained was to watch Sam, and hope. He had a feeling neither of them was going to sleep much tonight.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Sorry in advance for the sap flood; it's where the story ended up going, and it gets the point across. Thanks again to Adolescently for letting me share this!**

When Sam came to, his arms felt stuffed full of pins and needles. The skin was taut, painful to moved, and as he tried to roll over, something tugged at the back of his left hand. Scuffling erupted outside his immediate awareness.

"Sammy? Sammy! Listen, try to keep still, okay? Take it easy," Dean's voice reached him. Firm hands pressed his shoulders to the mattress.

Sam pried his eyes open. They were in the motel room. Dean leaned over him, a wad of gauze taped to his elbow. Their dad watched wearily in a chair close to the bed. As Sam took in the scene, he registered all the gauze around his own arms, the tube in his hand.

"W-w-wha…?"

"Relax. You got a little…overenthusiastic, but we patched you up just fine—"

"I had to get it out…after what I did…"

"I know," his big brother reassured him. "It's okay now."

"How long was I out?"

"A good while. It's almost three in the morning."

Sam scrunched his face. "Last thing I remember was you bustin' in…"

John looked ready to cry; he stared, blinking frequently, at Sam. "I…I can't begin to say how sorry I am, Sammy. It may not sound like much. I suppose none of us really knew how to deal with the supernatural crossing into family. I was desperate to save you, without knowing how." He had to pause to swallow his welling emotions. Sam took the opportunity to try to sit up, with Dean's help.

"Dean's right. This isn't the way to solve things, and I'm sorry if I pushed you to feel like this was the only way to do so. You've been scared, the…blood seemed to alienate you from everyone close. Please know that the truth couldn't be more opposite! You're here, alive, and part of this family. You're still a Winchester, and you have every right to that name."

Maybe it was the overpowering sincerity. Or waking up to such a chick-flick moment. Or simply how physically and emotionally spent Sam was. But he felt himself reverting to the timid, clingy attitude he had when he was little. He held his bandaged arms out for a hug.

"'M sorry, Dad…"

They embraced in a way none of them had in a long time. Warm drips tickled Sam's neck where his shirt gapped, leaking from his dad's eyes. Though Dean didn't exactly share the sappiness, he gave Sam's hair a good brotherly ruffle. After some time, the moment broke awkwardly.

"Ahem—well, I'm pretty sure we're done with this contraption, at least." John indicated the IV line running above Sam's head, which was mostly spent. Sam bit his lip as the needle was removed. One more bit of gauze and a bandaid for his collection. "You should be careful as you start moving around. I don't want to have to re-stitch anything. You really put yourself through the wringer. Once you're rested and gotten some food in you, we'll talk about what you can do on this case."

Sam nodded, knowing he deserved to be sidelined for his rash behavior. A part of him was also curious as to exactly what his arms looked like…

Dean swatted his hand down. "Hey—none 'a that, kid."

"We want you in one piece, Sammy. Me, Dean, and Bobby. We care about what happens to you." John squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "Now, it's about time we all rested up. Humans may need breaks from time to time, but unfortunately, monsters and spirits don't share the same opinion."

"Yes sir," Sam and Dean chimed together. Sam watched his family crawl gratefully into bed. The motel room went dark except for the street light illuminating the window. _This_ was what kept him from being a monster, what proved the Yellow-Eyed demon wrong. He had his family.

* * *

><p><strong>Also, thanks to all of you reading! It means a lot to me as a writer (and I just had to write something else-I mananged to hit 666 words on the nose. Creepy, right? Well, no more...). If you're interested in subjects besides Supernatural, please check out my other stories ^-^<strong>


End file.
